


Waking Up

by bluebeholder



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Breakfast, F/M, Fluff, Morning After, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 08:25:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13231860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: It's the morning after. Newt and Queenie have some breakfast and talk about how they got here and where they're going. It's calm and it's happy. Newt may have accidentally gone and fallen really in love.





	Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KatieHavok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatieHavok/gifts).



> HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYONE.
> 
> And Katie, here's your fic at LONG LAST. I'm so sorry this took so long, but here it is: Queenewt, fluff, and an explanation of exactly *how* they got where they are. 
> 
> For newcomers: you're going to want to read [A Good Dream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12821352) first. This is the sequel to that fic. 
> 
> (Also, the series tag: I'm undertaking the Hamilton Challenge--that is, write 51 stories in 6 months, as Alexander Hamilton wrote 51 Federalist Papers in the span of six months! This is the first fic in the undertaking...)
> 
> Enjoy!

Mornings-after are interesting things, Newt thinks, watching Queenie out of the corner of his eye as he works. He’s had a few of this kind of affair, in his time, and very rarely had anyone wanted to _stay_ later than they had to. But Queenie is an exceptional woman in all ways, really. This is no different.

They’re in the workshop. Queenie sits at the table, still in her pajamas; Newt, still shirtless, makes breakfast for her while she watches. The impropriety doesn’t particularly matter. Who other than the creatures will see them? Newt’s happy not to abide by social custom, as ever. His only worry now is that what he’s making won’t be up to standard.

“Of course it’ll be,” Queenie says with a sleepy smile. Her knees are drawn up to her chest and her chin rests on her hands. Her hair is still messy, flat on one side and curls out of shape. She’s never looked prettier, in Newt’s opinion. “Aw, don’t go telling lies.”

“You told me that no one tells lies in their own head,” Newt says, looking up from the stove at her. “And don’t you go talking about whatever your idea is…subconscious thoughts, or what have you. I don’t lie about this sort of thing.”

Queenie smiles. “Yeah,” she says. “One of the reasons I like you so much, Newt Scamander.”

They fall back into companionable quiet while Newt works. He’s used to preparing breakfasts on the fly, things that can be eaten quickly or one-handed while juggling chores with the other, like toast or hard-boiled eggs. Or, when he has the chance to sit down for a longer meal, he has something heavier that will keep him going: corned beef hash and a poached egg with pancakes is one of his favorites, since it only really requires one skillet and can be eaten as it comes onto the plate.

For Queenie, though, Newt’s feeling a bit panicky again. Neither his on-the-fly nor heavy breakfasts seem appropriate, somehow. He’s eaten breakfast with the Goldsteins before, and they generally eat something sit-down yet moderate: a memorable one was the morning Queenie served broiled white fish beside stewed prunes and apple sauce, graham toast, and a baked potato. It had been utterly delicious. Newt’s poor offerings--are absolutely no match.

“You know I can hear you worrying all the way over here,” Queenie says. Newt glances at her; she’s smiling. “Quit your dithering.”

“If you’re going to give yourself over to a life of hedonism and indulge in all the physical pleasures, I do think you ought to aim high with food as well as sex,” Newt says.

Queenie bursts out laughing. “I’m not that kind of a girl.”

Newt turns away from the stove to flick his wand and send a jar of orange marmalade floating over to the table with a few hot rolls. “The first time I saw you, I really thought you were a full-blown flapper,” he says.

“I ain’t that type,” Queenie insists. “I don’t go dancing or to speakeasies and certainly I don’t go with strange men. I just like the dresses, is all.”

“I wouldn’t judge if you were,” Newt says. “I always thought you were rather exciting. I’d never spent much time with a genuine flapper.” She laughs and he returns his attention to the stove, where the chopped onion is sizzling beautifully. He’s been to many places, and the habit of Europeans and Americans of serving eggs plain bores him. He’s gotten used to eating them in the style of other places, and this particular method of preparation appeared while he was in China. This isn’t quite the same, of course, but it’s near enough. Eggs with fried onions aren’t something common in America, and Queenie had indicated that she’d never tried it, especially not with the addition of syou.

He serves up the eggs when they’re done, bringing the plates to the table by hand and bringing the coffeepot over with a gentle Summoning Spell. They sit across from each other, not next to each other. It makes things pleasantly awkward. They’re back to accidentally making eye contact, or brushing feet under the table.

“How in the world did we get here?” Queenie asks suddenly, in the middle of spreading marmalade on a roll. “I got to confess, Newt…I always thought it would be Tina.”

Newt stops and deliberately sets his fork down, trying to silence its clink against the plate. “I did, too,” he says quietly. He looks away, glancing out at the rest of the suitcase. “But I stayed away too long, I suppose. And if you haven’t noticed, she…”

“Of course I noticed,” Queenie says. There’s a sad sort of smile in her voice. “I live with her, don’t I? Funny how crushes get out of hand so fast, isn’t it.”

It’s not necessarily funny, except in a vaguely tragic kind of way. Newt had stayed away too long, been too inaccessible, too unavailable. And even that might not have been at issue, except for the unexpected return of one Percival Graves to active duty at MACUSA. Tina, ever fiercely protective and covered in accolades for all her heroism since the disaster of 1926, had stepped in to be his right-hand woman. This would not have been terrible, but the rumor mill is very clear on the fact that she and Mr. Graves have been seen “out” together, and not in professional capacity.

Carefully, Newt swallows any of the hurt he’s still feeling over that and looks up at Queenie. “And you? I thought…Tina had mentioned a bakery.”

Queenie gazes back at him with stark sadness. “I guess she did. But there wasn’t anything to be done about it. Jacob…he never really remembered. And I ain’t got the skill to take away an Obliviation. I’d have to ask Tina or Mr. Graves for help with that…”

“I doubt that would go over well,” Newt says wryly. A thought occurs, and he can’t look at Queenie as he speaks. “I might be able to take it off, you know. I’m all right at that sort of spellwork. Had to use it before, you know…I’d be willing to try, anyway.”

“Oh, no,” Queenie says. She shakes her head. “He’s safe like this. Happy, even. I don’t think he remembers us at all, except as a very good dream…and that’s going away. I can see it every time I’m around him. The dream’s fading.”

For a long moment they’re both quiet, thinking about the strange kind of hope that had hung over the last moments of 1926. When Newt had believed he might find a happily-ever-after with Tina, when Queenie had believed that she might still have a chance with Jacob. It could have been happy.

“So this is just us jumping at shadows,” Newt says at last, shaking himself. Best to prepare for the worst. “I understand if you want this to be the end of—”

“Newton Artemis Fido Scamander, don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Queenie says, color rising in her cheeks. “I know you said yes because you like me and I certainly said yes because I like you. You’re interesting and kind and caring, and I always was a little jealous of Tina for knowing you better than I did.”

The fact that Newt’s heart leaps says a lot about the state of his crush. “Oh,” he says, for lack of anything better. He tries to look at Queenie’s face, he really does, but he’s nervous and that never works well when he’s distracted. “Though—how come you don’t know me better? You can read my mind.”

“It’s different than talking,” Queenie admits. “I see a lot, but it ain’t exactly the same. And it’s not as good as hearing it right from your mouth. And it’s different, when you feel like the third wheel.”

“I never wanted you to feel that way,” Newt protests.

Her smile is warm. “I did hear that,” she says. “And it ain’t your fault…and I don’t think it’s true anymore, really.”

Newt thinks he’s blushing, and ducks his head. “So would you like to keep this going?” he asks hesitantly. “I mean…not if it will be a problem, of course, I don’t want to cause a scandal.”

“Honey, I ain’t ever been very well-liked,” Queenie says. “It’s a scandal just to be a Legilimens, and a scandal to fall in love with a No-Maj, and a scandal to…I think you get the idea.”

“I do,” Newt says. He understands, he really does. He’s been a scandal since the night that, at six years old, he snuck out and fell asleep by the pond and woke up under the wing of a swan. That had been the beginning of things. It escalated through many more incidents all the way through to his expulsion from Hogwarts, and then into his adult life as a magizoologist. Newt is no stranger to scandal.

Queenie hums. “I like scandal,” she says decidedly. “You’re more interesting than most men I’ve ever met, and…well, you’re pretty good in bed, besides.”

“I like to think so,” Newt says. He remembers some of the things that went on last night and feels himself blush again. And his thoughts make Queenie blush and laugh helplessly, burying her face in her hands. Newt bites his lip and tries to refrain from any more recollections. He gets to his feet and sends dishes flying to do themselves in the sink and reaches for a jacket. “Well. I do have chores to take care of, if you’d like to come along?”

“Of course,” Queenie says. She stands up and looks down at herself. “…have you got something I could borrow, for work clothes?”

Newt cocks his head. “I meant to watch.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “Well, I mean to help!”

He raises his eyes to the heavens, but doesn’t protest anymore and finds Queenie a shirt and a pair of overalls that aren’t too egregiously large. She’s still nearly swimming in them, and with the legs of the overalls rolled up and the sleeves shoved over her elbows she looks like she could be a cast member of a Mark Twain book. When she hears him thinking about that, she yelps with feigned indignation and elbows him lightly.

They do the rounds together, companionably. Bowtruckles play in Queenie’s hair; Newt introduces her properly to the Graphorns. It’s nice. It’s as if she belongs here, fitting into an empty space he didn’t know was in the suitcase. This is a world he’s built for himself, and ordinarily he resents intrusions here. But he doesn’t resent Queenie at all.

What they’ll say to Tina, what they’ll say to the world when they exit the suitcase—that’s for later, Newt thinks. For now, it’s all right to stand under a tree in an artificial night and kiss each other, forgetting that there’s anything outside the suitcase. It’s all right to be happy.

**Author's Note:**

> DO YOU WANT AN ESOTERIC HISTORY FACT? BECAUSE THIS ONE IS AWESOME. WELCOME TO THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.
> 
> "The egg...tracks it name back to a prehistoric Indo-European source related to words for 'bird'...The Old English term was oeg, which survived in Middle English as ey (plural eyren)....But in the fourteenth century the related egg was borrowed from Old Norse. For a time the two forms competed with each other (William Caxton, in the prologue to his Book of Eneydos (1490), asked 'What should a man in these day now write, eggs or eyren, certainly it is hard to please every man'), and the Norse form did not finally emerge as the winner until the late sixteenth century." –John Ayto, _An A-Z of Food & Drink_ (Oxford University Press : Oxford, 2002). p. 117
> 
> Newt’s egg recipe comes from the 1914 _Chinese-Japanese Cook Book_. According to the authors, the Chinese recipes presented are those that will appeal to the Western palate, and all come directly from the recollection of Chinese cooks. Of course, verifying that is difficult when it’s over a hundred years since publication, but the fact that the authors advise potential cooks to go to a Chinese restaurant to taste dishes before cooking suggests that the recipes do have their roots in American Chinese cooking at the time… Additionally, the spelling of “soy” here is “syou”, because that’s the spelling presented in the book.
> 
> The, uh, moral of this story is _do not research food when you’re hungry_. I wrote this before eating breakfast. Mistake. Now you all have several hundred words of meebling about menus!


End file.
